


Ace of Hearts

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, BDSM, Bisexual John Watson, Dom/sub Play, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Riding Crops, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5084740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers that John has a fascination with one of Sherlock's weapons and tests his theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [livejournal.](http://cassandra-leeds.livejournal.com/31167.html)

Sherlock isn’t upset and he’s not confused. He closes the folder window, closes John’s computer and gets up to make himself a cup of coffee.

He’d silently noted many times before that John’s tastes went darker than John ever wanted others to know about. More than once Sherlock had noticed him staring at certain weapons of Sherlock’s with what could only be described as affection.

Sherlock stirs his coffee for a good minute and knows he’s missed something. Something is nagging him about it and he needs to look again.

He walks back to the desk, opens the computer and finds the file again, buried deep inside multiple other folders, under innocuous titles such as “gran’s birthday” and “summer family reunion.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. Really, John.

There are a few dozen photos from a website obviously very specialized in showing men in various degrees of subjugation. But John seems to particularly like a set featuring a man bound hand and foot, blindfolded, and being beaten mercilessly with a riding crop by a woman. Sherlock flips through. At first the man seems ready for it – composed, if submissive. By the end he’s twisting against the ropes, back covered with welts and bruises. The next set is similar but with a different man and in this case it’s a man doing the whipping. Which is not surprising either. Sherlock had always assumed John occasionally held an attraction to men, if just not romantically.

But the riding crop. Always the riding crop.

Sherlock goes to the website and browses through pictures and videos. The site has a wide variety of humiliations to offer. Everything from being walked on to being forcibly used by machines. And yet the only pictures John has saved were the ones with the riding crop. Which shows John favors that object specifically.

Sherlock doesn't often, if ever, feel stupid. But every so often he does feel slightly out of his element. And this was one of those moments.

Because his riding crop was often being touched by someone, he knew that much. In the last few months since John had moved in, Sherlock had noticed it not being where he’d left it hours before, had noticed fingerprints. It hadn’t been important in the moment and so forgotten about quite promptly. But he knew now, and he knew who, and it still wasn’t important.

Except that it was.

John could go out and get his own whip if he was so keen on having one to fondle for his fetish needs. But he wasn’t. He was touching  _his._

John was private. John  _would_  have bought his own if he wanted one. John would have kept it hidden under the mattress or, more likely, in his closet with his condoms and that set of lingerie he’d never gotten the chance to give that one girlfriend.

Sherlock closes the folder again, shuts down the computer and paces the room twice, stops and stares down the involved party, lying shining and black on the table. He approaches it, runs his fingers down the tight binding, the smooth leather of its handle.

John could have gone about this differently. And would have.

Sherlock taps his finger down once gently on the riding crop’s handle. No, this was personal.

He picks up his gloves as he hears the front door below close, heavy footsteps on the stairs, knows John is carrying a fair amount of groceries just by the pace and the weight of his footfalls. Knows by the lack of hesitance John has no idea Sherlock has him figured out. Again.

And Sherlock feels fantastically good for a moment - that flare of knowing more than the culprit. To bring John down to that for a moment is thrilling. To categorize him - someone Sherlock usually can’t categorize completely – in one unexpected way at least.

He turns as John comes through the door, mumbling as he looks up.

“They were out of the tea you like—are you… are you going out?”

His eyes rest on Sherlock’s hands as he pulls on one leather glove and then the other, swallows just barely as Sherlock answers, “No.” Sherlock places his gloved hand beside him, right next to the whip and watches John take it in, watches John shove down whatever discomfort, whatever small panic it’s just incited. Sherlock watches him compose his best military poker face and meet Sherlock’s eye.

“You’re dressed to go out,” he says, smallest crack in the back of his throat. Sherlock’s hand surrounds the grip of the riding crop as he watches John shift and then start towards the kitchen to put away the groceries.

“John.” It’s a crack through the air and John stops. Softer. “I have a few questions for you.”

John takes a breath, straightens, and turns. “What is it?”

“Come here.”

John frowns but finally takes the few steps across the room towards Sherlock to meet him, and Sherlock closes the last span of it with one step, riding crop now resting in his hand between them.

“John, have you been touching my things?” Sherlock’s tone is even if slightly scolding and he sees John’s eyes flick again to the whip and then back up to his. John’s body starts to react, Sherlock can see it - his pulse racing and visible, breath heavier. He’s sweating. It’s fascinating.

John presses his mouth in a tight line. “Sherlock—“

“I asked you a question.”

John stares at the floor and takes long breath before softly protesting, “I didn’t mean any—“

“Speak up, please.”

“I didn’t mean any offense,” John stammers.

“What made you think you could touch my things?” Sherlock smacks the whip into his gloved hand for emphasis, sharp sound making John wince, and Sherlock catches himself before he smiles. Isn’t that something?

Sherlock watches John, once again always a soldier, considering every tactic here. What could be said and done to get out of this, what apology could quickly be made before he makes a run for his room. But Sherlock sees arousal winning out. And he’s suddenly curious. How much further could he push this? Just to see if he could? John has never been this easy about anything. And yet this is unbelievably easy. It’s so easy to bend him with this.

John tilts his head forward and it’s a submissive movement but he holds himself rigid. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.” Sherlock places the end of the whip on John’s chest, presses down. “And I expect penance for it.”

John holds out an open hand, laughs a little. “What? A new one? I swear I didn’t…”

Sherlock stares him down cold until John looks like a mouse already caught.

“No, John.”

John’s mouth hangs open. “What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock smells the musk of fresh sweat coming from John’s hair. And it’s surprising to be this close to it and to see John like this. When he gets past the part where he’s aware of the fact that his friend is visibly aroused, Sherlock’s enjoying this. He’s never watched someone succumb to a fetish firsthand before. And it’s John, which is off-putting in one way and even more intriguing in another. There is no detail of this man Sherlock doesn’t know. But to know and to be involved are different. And Sherlock has involved himself now. He’s smack in the middle of this. He’s not in the same boat as John about it obviously, but Sherlock is not bored right now.

“Turn around.”

It takes a good second before John manages to pull his mind together to protest and it comes out a huff of baffled disbelief.

When he doesn’t move Sherlock repeats it.

And then John gets angry. He snaps out of whatever haze he’s in enough to put his hands in the air in frustration. “Do you—” John leans away. “Is this funny to you?” Sherlock frowns slightly. Interesting reaction. “I get it, you’re so far above these things and isn’t it just hilarious to--”

Sherlock experimentally pats the whip against John’s cheek just hard enough to hurt. John sucks in his breath and it breaks in a shaking exhaled gasp.

Sherlock can almost see the line that’s just been crossed.

And he takes another step all the same.

“I said,” Sherlock says, tone quiet and dangerous, “turn around.”

John backs up a step. It’s obviously sinking in that Sherlock is serious. John gives in to it, breaks nearly gracefully despite how heavy this moment of fantasy turned reality seems to press down on him with terror. John’s swaying as he bites his lip. It’s thrilling to watch really, a man completely at the mercy of his own twisted needs, who knows how defeated he is by them and is losing the battle against his better judgment.

John keeps his eyes carefully on the carpet.

Sherlock has all the cards now, just has to lay them down one by one.

“You deserve it, don’t you?”

John nods just barely.

“Then let’s get on with it.”

John turns around.

“Over by the sofa. On your knees.”

John hesitates for a moment before slowly lowering himself to the floor and moving his arms into a couple positions, not sure where to rest them, ends with leaning his forearms on the cushions in front of him.

“And I’d hate for you to ruin that jacket and shirt.”

Even without seeing it Sherlock recognizes John rolling his eyes. He shakes his head. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock hits the back of his neck with the whip and John hisses.

“Jesus, fine.”

It takes him a second to take off the jacket. The shirt takes a little longer.

John is pale under his clothes, those tan lines from months ago that gave him away instantly to Sherlock now barely visible around his neckline.

Sherlock stares down at John’s body, clean, not quite toned anymore. Strong though - a soldier’s body for a time, even if an army doctor. The raised scar of his shoulder shines differently than the skin around it, still fresh enough to be pink. It’s a raw thing to actually see finally and it makes Sherlock catch his breath for a second.

He has a part to play here though and he brings himself back easily enough.

“Arms out.” Sherlock touches the whip to John’s underarm, the soft flesh near the elbow and John stretches out his arms like wings on either side, pushing the bones of his shoulder blades in to meet one another, his chest flush against the sofa and head resting down. His breathing is faster now. He’s ready for it. He’s waiting. Sherlock didn’t have to see much on the website to catch on to the technique of this quickly. He’s good at taking on parts to get the information he needs on cases, a skill that he’s proud of along with the rest. And here he gets to play another. He runs the riding crop up the length of John’s spine, torturously slow, John takes a deep shaking breath, and then Sherlock brings the riding crop down, sharp sound filling the room. John instantly makes a choked off sound, bitten back. A small welt starts to appear where the blow fell.

“How many times?” Sherlock says and brings the whip down again. John sucks in his breath and grips the cushions under his hands. Sherlock strikes again and Johns cries out this time, sags down slightly but breathes in and pulls himself back into position. Two more hits, and this time Sherlock puts more air behind them. “How many times did you touch it?”

Johns shakes his head, breath coming out at a trembling repetitive pace. Sherlock hits down three more times between his shoulders in quick succession and John’s back arches back like a bow, mouth open. He buries his head back down arms shaking, knuckles white with how hard he’s fisting the fabric. His back is striped with red now, splotching, and in a small area on his side the darker purple of a bruise is blossoming.

John manages to force out, “I’m… I’m not sure.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sherlock says, conversationally, punctuated with another strike. “I was going to give you one hit for every instance. But now I suppose I’m just going to keep going until I’m satisfied.”

John groans, a hopeless and needy sound, and Sherlock notices the slight jerk of hips John gives at the threat. Sherlock brings the riding crop down again and again and John starts mumbling something. It’s soft though and muffled into the sofa.

“Do you have something to say?” Sherlock says mid swing, frowns in curiosity. Quieter, “Are you going to beg?” Sherlock considers this for a moment, asks again deductively, “Are you going to beg me to stop, John?”

“Please…” John chokes it out through what could almost be a sob, roll of his hips giving him away all over again. He’s sweating and bruising, his back now a shocking crimson. “Please.”

Yes, then.

“That’s good.” Sherlock lets the whip rest a moment. “Now apologize,” Sherlock orders but John is catching his breath on a groan and Sherlock lays a particularly hard blow on his mid back. John nearly screams. “Properly.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s broken and small and desperate. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I won’t do it again. Never without your permission again. I promise.”

Sherlock waits and lets the apology hang in the air, lets John wonder if he’s done right, and finds himself savoring the pledge in the moment - the sincerity of it and the gratefulness even deeper underneath. John’s hips give a small twitching push again and Sherlock feels something unexpectedly twinge in him at that. John let him see him like this, John let him in this far. He’s about to let him make the final move in this game and Sherlock feels something completely different than before shift in him. It isn’t pride. It’s something else that makes this not a game, makes it something close and strange. He feels different looking at John like this, completely exposed. He feels like he’s never been this close to someone else before in his life.

Sherlock’s been with others in pain before – people he’s interrogated who have lost loved ones, seen murders not fully completed at the scene. Like John, Sherlock’s seen a huge scope of human cruelty to other humans, has seen men’s and women’s and children’s deaths.

But John isn’t dying in pain. He’s alive with it. And Sherlock isn’t being cruel here.

It feels strangely like a mercy to be holding this riding crop in his gloved fist, John open and letting this happen, taking it all, ready to take more if Sherlock wished it.

But he’s got only one thing left to test.

Sherlock places the last card down.

He comes closer and stands with his legs almost on either side of John.

John is still panting as Sherlock places the handle of the riding crop to the nape of John’s neck and applies just enough pressure to tilt his head a little deeper onto the cushions.

Immediately John quiets. Sherlock keeps the handle firmly placed keeping John’s head down, says softly but sternly, “If you’re planning on finishing yourself off here, now’s the only chance you’re getting.”

John seems to have been holding his breath, because he gasps at that, viciously breathes out and cups himself with one hand and in moments is tensing hard under Sherlock, abused body convulsing and then relaxing in relief, muffling his cries into fabric wet with sweat, spit, and tears.

Sherlock backs away and watches as John slumps down, as if in slow motion, swimming in whatever place he’s still in. He looks mildly drugged as he reaches for his shirt and pulls it on along with his jacket.

For one of the first times Sherlock can remember, he doesn’t have any clue what to say.

Sherlock has never been anywhere like this with anyone. He’s never brought someone he knew so well down to an intimate level like this. And for a moment he wonders if this is what many people feel like after sex. He imagines not. He always thought most people seemed to think they were happier.

“Are you alright?” He asks finally. He takes off his gloves, puts the riding crop back down on the table and John still looks dazed but not upset. He nods.

“Did you want coffee?”

“Thank you.”

It takes a Sherlock a moment as he starts to walk towards the kitchen to realize that ‘thank you’ wasn’t for the offer.

He hesitates to respond though. He could say a million things here, but almost all of them either infer interest or promise.

Sherlock makes John and himself coffee, presents it to John with a nod, walks back into the dining room to sit down at his microscope, and says nothing.


End file.
